The Rock Star Wants A Wife

ONE Cruise ships were to hangovers what hell was to a burns victim: t*****e. Penny grabbed the toilet seat and hauled herself up off the bathroom floor. No matter how nauseous she felt, she had nothing left to barf up. She remembered that much from last night. She couldn't have drunk enough of that cheap tequila, then. Or maybe that scummy Mexican restaurant had watered it down. That's what it was. They'd poisoned her instead of getting her drunk, so that's why she felt so sick. She remembered every heaving, hoiking moment with gut-wrenching clarity, so she couldn't have been drugged. Getting laid would be infinitely preferable to lying on the tiny bathroom floor, sandwiched between the shower and the toilet, wondering if she'd vomit her guts up before drifting into a doze. Someone hammered on her cabin door. "Penny, time to go. You've got breakfast shift, remember?" Breakfast. Good thing she only had to cook it, not eat it. Five minutes later, showered and changed into an apprentice chef's uniform that felt fresher than she did, Penny staggered out of her cramped cabin, along the passage that led to the cruise ship's kitchens. "Late again," growled Pierre, the head chef. Actually, his name was Peter, she'd found out one night in Sydney, when some drunken blokes had hailed him as Poiter, a fellow Collingwood fan, who had to help them celebrate the football team's victory. Sadly, knowing his real name hadn't made him any nicer to her. If anything, he just hated her more for it. "I told you, you turn up on time and do your job, or I'll find another apprentice who will." Penny nodded and tied on her apron, keeping her head down so she didn't inhale the heady scents of food that she didn't want. "You're on pancakes this morning," he added maliciously, his eyes daring her to protest. Pancakes were usually a kitchenhand's job, not a trained chef like she was, but Penny didn't mind the mindless task of spooning, watching, flipping and sliding the perfect circles of fluffiness onto people's plates. She'd first learned to make them on a Macca's grill, and she'd only improved her skills since. Penny was proud of her pancakes. She fell into an easy rhythm, pouring, flipping and sliding, until she found herself smiling. Squeals of delight sounded from child passengers as they first saw their personal stack of pancakes. Oh, but there was always one... "I want ones like we had at Disneyland. I want...Mickey Mouse!" screeched today's brat of indeterminate s*x, screwing up its face. Penny didn't miss a beat. Two ears, a round face, then another, and another...within a few minutes she had a perfect stack of mouse-head pancakes fit for the royal little s**t. "Ooh, look, Minnie Mouse," a little girl breathed, her eyes shining. "Please, Mummy, can I have those, too?" Penny liked this mother. Mummy pursed her lips, duck-fashion, clearly having no trouble refusing her child's whim. Of course it was the overindulged little shits who always got what they wanted, while more deserving people, like Penny and this polite little girl, didn't get a stinking thing. "I can do it. It's no trouble," Penny found herself saying. Well, it was true. It's not like she had a queue at the pancake station. The dining room was nearly empty this early in the morning. One of the kitchenhands brought out another jug of batter, spiriting away the empties. Penny inhaled deeply as she tested the batter. It had to have the right texture, flowing across the grill, with just the right amount of froth. Mmm, vanilla and eggs, with the salty undertaste of the real butter she greased the grill with. Maybe she was hungry after all. She'd have to wait a long time before she could sneak a plate of pancakes out for a breakfast break, though. Pierre's eagle eyes saw everything. Sighing, Penny told her rumbling stomach to shut the f**k up as she counted the minutes until the end of Pierre's shift and her self-imposed starvation.